I've known what I wish I'd not seen
 And been who I wish I'd not been
 And done what I wished not to do
 And for what, sorrowed tale of you?
 So I've lived in shades of excess
 From which my burdened heart digress
 Cannot, though all its fibers try
 With might of Hercules.  And I,
 What have I but pain to survive
 That from your hatred will derive
 Till my cup flows over with charms
 That then set off my soul's alarms?
 Oh, what demon has slaughtered pride
 Except he that I see inside
 The glass of mirrors, he who lives
 And dies by edges of the shivs
 Forged by the smiths within your core
 Who mine my mantle for your ore?
 What have I in life left to live,
 What have I but blood I can't give
 And all I so wished to divest
 But which you dared not to ingest?
 So save the leaden smile you dare
 To show to those your fangs you bare
 Such as myself, the carcassed one
 You left out in the desert's sun
 To die a second death.  A joy
 'Tis not, to die from treason's ploy,
 To string myself into the line
 You cut down like the hanging vine
 Draped over the perfected home
 You call your life.  Each place I roam
 Will be a path leading me back
 To where the fondness I do lack-
 
 I've known what I wish I'd not seen
 And been where none before has been,
 In that black garden of your hate
 Where roses bloom, never to sate
 The passersby who smell the scent,
 Your malfeasance of discontent.